


Randy's Story, The Beginning

by mickeym



Series: Randy and Michael [20]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Humor, Realization, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-24
Updated: 2010-05-24
Packaged: 2018-07-11 07:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7035316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeym/pseuds/mickeym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Back <strike>when dinosaurs roamed the earth</strike> <strike>in the dark ages</strike> in mid-1998,  and I started writing some original character stuff, for our own amusement. We named the characters Randy (Taylor) and Michael (Pierson), and at first it was just a lark, a way to have fun and explore things we weren't sure we could make work in our chosen fandom. </p><p>But Randy and Michael took on lives of their own; became people in their own right. We developed histories for both of them, giving them friends, family, lovers. Michael was the heir-apparent to (and eventual head of) his family's international corporation, Pierson Pharmaceuticals. He hailed from England but when the guys' shared story begins had been in the States for some time, living in San Francisco and working out of that office as his headquarters. Randy -- short for Randall, his middle name -- was a bio-geneticist working in R&D at the HQ compound. Both characters had no small amount of tragedy and pain in their past (and really, to varying degrees, who doesn't?) and one of the things I loved the most about these guys was that no matter what life threw at them, they kept going. Both were - are - survivors. </p><p>I knew, starting their story, that Randy was afraid to fly; that he'd suffered great personal tragedy fairly early in life, and what might've been a phobia quickly transformed into pure terror. What I wasn't completely sure of was what, or why, or how. So, when Pierson and I weren't actively writing the guys and their continuing shared adventures, I started to explore Randy's history. This piece was written years ago; before I ever even got on LJ. It's finished (as much as you can finish something as ambiguous as 'personal tragedy'), but I never did anything with it. It just sat there, taunting me. When I discovered the disk the other night with all the R/M files on it, I thought, "I want to share this." Randy is a part of <i>me</i>, which I think is partly why he feels so real to me. My creation, no one else's. Not unlike being a parent. *wry smile*</p><p>So. For the six or so of you out there who might still be reading the Randy/Michael stories, here's Randy's earliest history, up to that life-changing event that shaped so much of his future. It's not an easy read, but I think it gives a lot of insight into who Randy is. <b>The story contains physical trauma and death</b>, so consider that before you read, if it's an issue. I would rate it vaguely PG-ish, I guess. I hope anyone who reads it...well, I won't say 'enjoy', but I hope you like it. </p><p>**This actually happens long before any of the already-posted stories in the Randy and MIchael world. The post date is May 24, 2010, but the story was written probably 12 years before that.</p></blockquote>





	Randy's Story, The Beginning

I was never a normal kid, at least not in the sense many think of as 'normal'.

To the unknowing, everything appeared normal, unremarkable, usual. I had no physical defects, all limbs were strong and where they were supposed to be. My health was good. My father worked in insurance; long hours that often took him away from home for days at a time, though that often made the time he was at home that much better, that much more special. My mom worked as a nurse until Jan was born, then she quit to stay at home with the new baby. And the babies that came afterward.

Nothing abnormal there, but mom and dad figured out pretty quick after I was born that while I appeared normal in every way, there was nothing normal about me.

I don't remember when I actually became aware of things. Language, thoughts, *things*. It was early. Like, just all of a sudden I *knew* stuff. I understood stuff. I laughed when people talked baby talk to me, and most people thought I was just a happy baby, laughing. Not…exactly. I know I talked young. Before I was fully a year old I could speak pretty well. Full sentences and the like. It snowballed from there. Language opened up whole other worlds for me; made everything else accessible. I loved it.

And sometimes, I hated it, too. It called attention to me that I didn't always want.

When I was born, my family became four. Mom, Dad, my older sister Jan -- short for Janissa -- and me. Jan was three years older than me, and the biggest pain in the butt that could be imagined. I often thought she hated me on sight and kept on going. When I was a little older I understood and was a bit more empathetic; after all, she had Mom and Dad all to herself for three years, and when this little interloper -- me -- came along, not only did she have to share, but the interloper made it quickly known how different he was which was a rub all it's own.

Jan and I were actually typical sibs. We loved each other, but we'd have rather died than show it. She believed that being older made her superior to me, and whenever she got the opportunity to show me up in any way, she took it. Looking back, I know I wasn't the easiest kid to have as a younger sib. Older sisters or brothers were supposed to be superior, and I knocked the wind right out of Jan's sails early on. By the time I was five or six I'd passed her up in school -- and kept right on in that vein. Which brought up a whole new host of troubles: not only was I a geek, I was the ultimate in freaky. My sister was the only one allowed to pick on me, though. Just let one of the older boys or girls say anything to me or try to intimidate me -- name calling, tripping me on the playground, pulling my chair out whenever I tried to sit down -- and Jan was there like an avenging angel. I don't know how many fights or scrapes she was in over the years, but they added up quickly. Part of me felt guilty that she was in so many fights, but a small part of me always got this warm feeling that spread out from my chest when I thought about her standing up for me. She could pick on me, but that was it.

I was six when my younger sister, Patty, was born. Mom and Dad considered her a blessing and miracle all in one, since Mom lost two babies after me, and before Patty.

Patty was my baby, in a lot of ways. Mom was awfully sick during the pregnancy as well as after she was born, and Dad couldn't stay home from work indefinitely. Back then there was no such a thing as paternity leave. By then I was old enough to help out--both before and after she was born, so by the time she got here I felt like I'd already bonded with her. Jan was interested initially but her interest waned after the first month or so when Patty continued to fuss and cry unceasingly. Born early, she was very small, quite weak, and given to unending bouts of colic. Mom coped as best she could, but she was still healing too, her body working to heal from the cesarean they'd had to do to take Patty early. So while my big sister went out to play with her friends, riding their bikes through our neighborhood or swinging on the jungle-gym in our backyard, I stayed inside and rocked the baby, or walked her, patting her back, or bathed her, letting the warm water splash and soothe her. Her crying didn't bother me; it was her way of talking to us, her way of trying to let us know what was wrong.

It was then I started to wonder what made each of us the way we were; how and why we had black hair, and why my eyes were green while Patty's and Jan's were blue. Walking her endlessly up and down the hallway, watching her, studying each minute bit of her, made me think and question and want to know.

But it made me love her, too. 

Most kids I knew didn't care about their baby sisters--or brothers--quite like I did. But I wasn't like most kids, either. By the time Patty was born, I'd already skipped most of the elementary grades; I was far ahead of Jan in school, which only gave her more ammunition to tease me about. "Geek" was usually the nicest thing she called me.

*****

Back in those days, moms usually stayed at home with their kids. Not all moms; even then I knew there were exceptions to every rule. But ours stayed at home, and often I would stay at home with her--missing school wasn't any big deal for me; I could easily make up lessons missed. School was a mixed blessing for me in a lot of ways. I loved learning; my brain seemed geared to do that better than anything else, actually. But it was also full of painful lessons, like the ones my sister taught me--that I was different. I was a geek. A pint-sized, younger-than-everyone-else, geek. Mom and Dad were adamant that I could take classes ahead, go into anything I could test into, but I had to go *to school*--mix with kids my own age--at least part of the time. I had to learn how to do the social thing as well as the academic thing. That worked up until the time I finished the fifth grade curriculum at the local elementary school, in the early spring of '73. I was not quite six.

By that time I was too far ahead to do much in the way of socializing within the school walls. I wanted to; I wanted friends badly, but there was such a gap between me and most of my peers. At four, five and six I should have been learning how to play with the other kids, but kids my age were…a little boring and a lot intimidating. Never mind that they were just learning their alphabet and numbers, and primary colors and basic math skills while I was starting to read Steinbeck and Hemingway, and working basic algebra equations. They knew how to play. They knew how to put books down -- if indeed they picked them up yet -- and play kickball, or King of the Hill, or jump rope, or any number of other things. Things I wasn't very good at doing. I couldn't talk to most of them; they had no concept of the things I wanted to talk about…and the ones I could have talked to didn't want to be seen dead talking to me. It was terribly uncool to be twelve and talking to a five year old. I was a baby freak walking around amongst them. Some tolerated me, but the majority ignored me like I wasn't even there.

I *was* still a kid, though, and my parents made it a point to let me be one, as much as it was possible. I trick-or-treated, colored Easter eggs, hung my stocking for Santa Claus, and put my baby teeth under my pillow for the tooth-fairy. But I didn't go back to school. Not for a while. My parents decided to work with the counselors both at the elementary school and the junior high, as well as a private tutor, and I took my lessons at home. I don't know how many people homeschooled their kids in the '70's; probably not a lot. But it worked for me. It relieved me of a lot of pressure I hadn't realized I'd been feeling.

But it also served to accentuate my loneliness. At least while I was in school, walking from place-to-place, I could pretend that some of the kids swarming around me were my friends. At home I didn't have that luxury. To counteract some of that I did other things. Extracurricular activities, that had very little to do with formal schooling, but that were fun and educational all at the same time. My folks enrolled me in swimming classes at the YMCA and signed me up for Little League. I wasn't that good at the running part, but I could hit like nobody's business. I also got involved Boy Scouts and the local chess club. Things that were fun, but would still stretch my brain, teach me things. 

*****

After three years of schooling -- partly spent being bored silly and partly being pushed to stretch my brain -- I was afraid I'd be bored at home. Lesson plans only took me just so long to work through and my other activities took place after 'school hours', so I could socialize with other kids. That being the point, of course. I found, though, far from being bored, that I much preferred, at least initially, staying home with Mom and Patty.

Apart from lesson plans and time with my tutor, time spent with my mom was doing cool things, like learning how to cook--I loved to measure out the spices, and crack the eggs for her. I wasn't allowed knives yet, to chop things, but she let me do all sorts of other stuff, like mixing, blending or folding, enough to keep me interested. It was always fascinating to watch how the food changed when heat was applied; cooking was like a very cool, good-smelling science experiment. Mom would sit with me on the couch and we'd read together, taking turns reading aloud. Sometimes we would read Shakespeare, and act out some of the parts. I loved Hamlet and The Merchant of Venice. Romeo and Juliet puzzled me, and when I told mom I didn't get it, she would laugh and hug me, assuring me some day I'd love someone and then I would understand how they'd felt.

We also played with Patty; I loved holding up pictures of things and telling her what they were, watching her grab for the brightly-colored objects, or reading aloud to her. I practiced my piano when she was particularly fussy; the sound of music seemed to soothe her some--though Jan always yelled that my playing gave her a headache. Which of course was all the more reason to play, as badly as I could make myself.

Dad taught me how to sail, first by just taking me along to watch and observe, and later by letting me help. We rigged rope and sails, polished chrome, swabbed the deck, and in between he taught me how to chart a course using a nautical map or the stars, how to steer, how to raise and lower sails to catch the wind. Some weekends would be just the two of us, lying on the deck of our boat, feeling the waves rising and falling beneath us, watching the stars move across the sky. Other weekends were spent building a tree-house in the big tree in our backyard, to give me a place to escape to when the girls were too noisy, or I just couldn't fit in anywhere at a particular moment.

*****

Somewhere along the way I learned I was different from the other kids I knew, and not just because I could read books the seniors at the high school read, nor because I could work Trig calculations, nor because I understood the basic principles of rocket science. 

I was different because I liked boys, not girls.

I never was certain when I became aware of it; it was always kind of there, hovering at the back of my mind. Jan would talk about the boys in her class that she had a crush on--I would hear her and her friends giggling in our family room during sleepovers--or the movie or rock stars she liked. John Travolta and Shawn Cassidy were the most favored, followed by the Bay City Rollers. I would listen to the music winding around in my brain and wonder what those guys were like, as real people. What they liked to do. Who they liked to spend their time with. Who I might spend my time with, some day.

One memorable day Jan left her albums out after a sleep-over, and I picked one up and stared at it a long while, memorizing the picture on the jacket. It wasn't an overly glamorous picture, just a guy smiling at the camera, looking happy and relaxed. I touched the picture, outlining his face with my finger, imagining him smiling at me that way. It stirred something inside me…something that made me realize *I* had a crush on Shawn as well. I was ten.

I don't think my dad ever really noticed; it could have been denial, or he just wasn't aware that I might be programmed differently than he was. But at some point my mom did realize that I was different, and it had nothing to do with academics. I hardly ever talked about girls in school--not that I was really looking at anyone, there was too much to learn, to absorb, to spend much time gawking at anyone--but boys did get mentioned, at least in the context of things so-and-so did or said… and eventually, one in particular got mentioned a lot more than others.

*****

It was late fall, not long after I turned twelve, when hormones were starting to kick in and make themselves known. In spite of the fact that I didn't usually notice anyone for more than a moment, I noticed him. Edward "call me Eddie" Hughes. He was taller than I was--everyone was, at that point--standing close to six feet, I think. He had clear blue-grey eyes and blond hair that he wore buzzed short. Most everyone at that time was wearing their hair longer, guys and girls alike. Not Eddie. He was bound for the military, and he was a jock, and his hair stayed buzzed. He also had a dimple in his chin, and the neatest smile--it made me feel warm all over when he smiled at me.

He was my current lab partner, a senior, like me, who -- unlike me -- played football on the varsity team, but seemed to like school, too. I wasn't given to worshipping jocks, or anyone else in particular, but he was *nice* to me. A complete opposite of what most of the jocks roaming the halls were; generally *if* they noticed me, it was only to point out the geeky little kid also roaming the hallowed halls of the high school. Eddie was different. He actually acted like he liked me, like he enjoyed talking to me. I found out later in the school year he was planning on majoring in biology when he went to college; I thought that was supremely cool. It was even cooler that he treated me like a real person, rather than a freak, or a disembodied brain, or worse, a little kid.

By that time I knew I was gay--though it didn't really mean much to me. I was too young to really understand what all the feelings inside me were about, and I was still engrossed enough in school not to look around much. 'Gay' for me at that time simply meant I looked at other boys, when I chanced to look around at all. I also wasn't real quick about clueing in to 'crushes', not then, anyway. I knew I liked Eddie, but I didn't make the connection at first, until I'd mentioned his name probably a dozen times while telling mom about my lab that day. I tried to tone it down once I actually realized, but it was hard to do. Everything he'd done or said seemed important--at least to me. I noticed the strange light in mom's eye, but didn't connect it to that, either, at first.

Like I said, not always quick on the uptake. 

When our homework was all done, and baths and showers were finished, it was bedtime. For me and Patty, anyway. At fifteen, Jan had a different set of rules that I envied her mightily for. Patty went to bed before me, and I didn't have to go to *bed*--I was allowed to stay up and read until I was ready to go to sleep, as long as I was in bed--but I still sometimes resented being treated like a 'kid'. I'd been navigating the adult world of learning and education for years by then, talking with other adults on their level rather than the level most of them went down to, to converse with kids, and to have to go to bed, even if it just meant being physically in bed, by nine or ten o'clock on school nights rankled a little. 

Mom didn't usually come in once she'd kissed me goodnight in the kitchen, or living room, or wherever it was she was at when I went up to get in bed, but that night she came in as I was turning my bed back, finding the book I was going to read. Sarah sent me some awesome books for my birthday, including a set titled 'The Metabolic and Molecular Bases of Inherited Disease'. I was going to start on volume one.

She looked…serious, as she sat down on the side of my bed and looked around the walls of my room. 

I had a couple rocket posters, a huge star chart, a poster of musical notes that formed a cool pattern I found intriguing to study, and two walls of bookshelves with texts that ranged from the murder mysteries I'd recently discovered, to a Latin dictionary, to discourses on all subjects in between, including my beloved books on genetics. She looked at my books for a few minutes, then smiled at me, and in her eyes was…something I hadn't seen before. A little sadness maybe, but a peacefulness I'd never really noticed, and the strength I was used to seeing there. She was always strong; she made me feel safe with that strength. I frowned and touched her hand, wondering what was wrong, if I'd done something I shouldn't have, or hadn't done something I should have.

"Mom? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, sweetie. I just…I want you to know, Randy, that it's okay to be different. We can't all be alike."

"Right--?" I didn't have a clue what she was talking about and it clearly showed on my face and in my voice.

She smiled and brushed my hair back off my forehead. "I'm talking about your friend Eddie, hon. You like him a lot, don't you." 

Statement, not questioning me. I frowned. "Yeah--" Okay, clue-in time. I wasn't sure if I got red first, then white, or vice versa, but my face must have gone through some alarming changes rather quickly, because she leaned in closer and hugged me tight.

"It's okay, Randy." Her voice sounded a little breathless, like she'd run after Patty, or maybe cried recently, and I wondered if she really believed it, or was saying it to make me feel better. I had the sudden sense of disappointing her--and Dad--and clutched her back.

"I'm sor--"

"Don't you dare apologize." Mom pulled back and frowned at me. "Be true to yourself, Randy. I've tried to teach you that. You're--gay--" Her voice stuttered once, then she regrouped and went on. "It's all right. It's who you are. It's a surprise, but--not one that we can't deal with…support you in." Her hand was cool against my hot face and I leaned into her touch, surprised at the emotions running wildly through me. "It really…wasn't a surprise to me, actually," her voice was soft, gentle, and I had a wild flashback of her singing lullabyes to me in that voice. "I think I've known for a while." She smiled again. "You need to know that I love you, Randy. The fact that you like boys won't change that. It might be a little harder for your dad--but he'll still love you. Who you are…is what's important. The rest…is incidental."

"Mom." This time it was my voice that was breathless, uncertain. I blinked tears back because big boys didn't cry, especially when there wasn't anything to cry over, and hugged her tight again. I didn't know how to tell her what it meant to me that she didn't care; I heard the things said at school, the whispered comments about 'faggots' and 'queers', ugly words I hated. I hadn't kept silent just to stay silent; I'd done it because an eleven or twelve year old boy would have a hard time defending himself against older, stronger kids. Someday I wouldn't have to hide who I was -- hopefully -- but at least for now I had the support of someone I loved more than anything. I wiped my eyes and sat back. "Thanks."

She smiled again and handed me a tissue out of her sweater pocket. "Thank you for trusting me with it."

"But I didn't--" I stopped. "You mean talking about Eddie?" She nodded. "But I was just…talking about him."

"But you don't talk about him to just anyone, do you?"

I thought about that for a minute, then shook my head. "Not like that. I'd get creamed if anyone at school knew…and Jan--" I shuddered. I loved my sister, but she already had enough ammo against me. I wasn't going to willingly hand her anything else.

"So you found a way to tell me." She kissed my forehead. "I love you, honey."

"Love you too, mom." I leaned back against my pillow. "Now what?"

She stood up, shaking her head. "Now, nothing. Life goes on…we'll deal with things one day at a time, for the moment. We'll talk to your dad when the time is right," she smiled. "It's not like you're going to be dating any time soon, young man."

"Mom!"

"It's true." She reached down and tugged lightly on a lock of my hair. "You're twelve, Randy. Never mind that your brain is somewhere around sixty--you're still young enough we have time to work through things. And you'll know when it's the right time to tell him, like you knew when it was right to tell me." Another smile. "You'll need to be a little more…direct, with your father, though. Men aren't as good at picking up subtleties as women are."

"Yeah, I've noticed." My voice sounded wry and she laughed at me as she walked to the door.

"Don't forget--you're one of the Y's, honey. Subtlety doesn't always work on you, either."

"Hah." I turned on my side and propped my head on my hand. "Thanks mom--a lot."

"You're welcome, a lot. I meant what I said: I love you, no matter what. Now try not to stay up until all hours, okay?" She turned off the overhead light, leaving my bedside lamp to glow softly.

"Okay. G'night, mom."

"Good night, honey."

I watched her pull the door closed behind her then flopped over onto my back. Part of me was relieved, the rest of me…well, my stomach still felt tied up in knots. I couldn't believe she knew. That she didn't mind. I didn't really want to tell my dad; regardless of what mom said I knew it hurt her some, so I could only imagine my dad's reaction to it. But like she said, we didn't have to do it right away. It wasn't like I was going to run out and find me a boyfriend. Though that did beg the question of 'would I ever?'. I wondered about that, opening my book up and propping it on my chest.

 

Sunday nights were *always* reserved for Mutual of Omaha's "Wild Kingdom", and afterward, "The Wonderful World of Disney".

We were going to Disney World. Mom and Dad pulled all of us out of school for the week--the whole week--so that we could fly to Florida, see Mickey Mouse, and visit with mom's cousin Sarah and her husband Roger, who came to the states every year around October or November, and stayed through Christmas. We usually saw them at our house for the holidays; once, before Grandma O'Halloran passed away, we all drove to Dallas to have a family reunion/Christmas dinner. That was a wild year--the only time I'd ever been out of Corpus Christi that wasn't a sailing trip. 

Patty was nearly beside herself, and even though she was older and wiser, and had to be 'cool', I knew Jan was pretty excited, too. Me? I was thrilled. Not so much for Mickey Mouse, per se, but I'd wanted to go to Disney World since the very first time we watched the Aristocats. I wanted to see the magic being made. Even though I knew it wasn't *really* magic--even if my brain didn't work triple overtime, as dad liked to call it--it sure seemed that way. I waited eagerly for Sunday night every week, so I could watch "The Wonderful World of Disney". 

This was our first time on an airplane, at least for me, Patty and Jan. Mom and Dad had flown before, a few times, but even they weren't exactly seasoned travelers. I was really too old to do the tour up to the cockpit to talk to the pilot, but I read every book I could lay my hands on for weeks before the flight. I memorized all the names of the different parts, and what their purpose was. I wasn't real keen on the idea of being so high off the ground--30,000 feet seemed like an awful lot--but the books I read assured that air travel was far safer than getting on a highway, when factoring the number of car crashes. Put that way, it seemed pretty safe.

We boarded around ten in the morning, then sat on the runway for thirty minutes, waiting for the backlog of planes. I wondered if they did that on purpose--told you one time, then planned secretly for another. Dad told me I would make a good FBI agent, seeing plots within everything, and Jan rolled her eyes and called me an infant. I was glad she was sitting with Mom and Dad a few rows back. Patty was scared, and didn't want me out of her sight, so I got to sit with her. The plane was too crowded for us to all sit together; that was fine with me. The others were over the wing, and I could see better out the small windows sitting up further.

We settled into our seats and fastened our lapbelts. I could smell the cigarette smoke from the rear of the plane, and my ears fairly itched from all the different noises in such a small, enclosed area. Patty tugged my arm and I leaned in close to hear her.

"Randy--are my ears gonna hurt when we go up?" 

I smiled and pulled on one pigtail; mom did her hair 

"S'okay, Patty--watch out the window." She nodded and clung on to my hand. Little baby sister, who almost wasn't--I was glad to have her. I guess a lot of older brothers would have picked on the little one, or ignored her… not me. Jan was for picking on; Patty was for loving. She was my baby, kind of. I played with her, took care of her. Not that Mom didn't, but I just felt this… I dunno. Attachment, I guess, to her.

Take-off scared her shitless, and didn't do much for my stomach. I had never noticed that I was sensitive to stuff like that--but then, I'd never been in an airplane before, either.

"We're flying up to the *stars*, Randy!" I don't think I ever saw her eyes so big before--not even the time she swallowed the bug by mistake.

"Not quite that high, Patty. But almost!" She'd gotten out of her seat at the first chance, and stood with her nose pressed against the plexiglass, staring outside. It was awesome, seeing the clouds down below us. A little scary, but pretty awesome. 

"Look!" It was almost a squeal, it was so high-pitched. I winced a little, then followed her pointing finger. Way down below, hardly as big as ants look, crawling on the ground, were cars. At least, I think they were cars. They were so teeny. "Bugs?"

"Nope." I grinned at her. "Cars. Trucks. That's how high we are, darlin'. So high up those big ol' cars look like the ants in the backyard."

"Wow." I wasn't sure it was possible, but her eyes got even wider, and she squashed her nose up tighter against the window.

Mom came up to check on us after they turned off all the signs, and got all mushy on us, giving us hugs and kisses, telling us to be good kids. I wonder sometimes, if she knew something.

"Try and get Patty to take a nap, Randy. She's going to be impossible if she doesn't."

"Sure, mom." Yeah, right. As if she's going to sleep through her very first plane ride. Well, there was always the return flight…

*****

As it turned out, we both fell asleep. I got Patty a blanket and a pillow when the stewardess passed by, and had her snuggle down in the empty seat and hers, laying beside me. Almost six, but not very big; she was going to be small like Mom. Not like me--I snorted quietly, thinking about how I was obviously going to be one of those awkward teens. Nothing graceful, or petite about me. I was already five feet, eight inches tall, though God knew I had a helluva lot of filling out to do. Dad used to laugh when he wrestled me down and would say that once I had some meat on me he'd never beat me again. As it was, a good strong wind could probably blow me away.

It was warmish on the plane, and I closed the shade on the little window to block out some of the light, then closed my eyes. We'd gotten up early to make the flight, and although it wasn't a *real* long one, we'd been at the airport for a while.

A jerk woke me up. Or maybe it was a bump, I'm not sure. I don't remember much about it now, though certain things are etched so clearly into my brain that those I'll *never* forget. 

Right after the jerk, a loud, high-pitched…shriek, I suppose, started. A strange shiver raced through the plane; I could feel it vibrate through me, from where my feet rested on the floor. Something was wrong--something was terribly wrong. I leaned over and pulled Patty upright, my fingers fumbling with the belt to get her secured. That shriek… I couldn't block it. Things were blowing around the cabin now, and it was hard to breathe, suddenly. The oxygen masks above us dropped, and I pulled my on, my fingers feeling numb, not answering the commands my brain was sending them. I got Patty's on her, and then had to hold it on--I think my little sister was hysterical, at that point. I'm not sure--all I can remember is feeling dead inside, knowing that whatever happened, it wasn't going to be good.

There was someone on the PA talking; something had happened to an engine, and the right wing, and we were losing altitude. Good crew, good captain, we could land, and be okay… get out of this… 

I didn't believe whoever was talking. We *were* losing altitude fast; I could see the ground racing up to meet us from my glance out the window. Right wing…right wing… The shriek got louder, faster, harder to block out, even though I couldn't see, for the tears smarting in my eyes. I wanted to hold on to Patty, to pull her into my lap, but I didn't dare. I tried to turn around, but I couldn't make my body move. Couldn't make myself do it. I knew what I wasn't going to see back there; I could feel the pressure from the cabin had changed dramatically--and wing was where my family had been sitting.

"Randy--!" Patty's hand was icy cold when she grabbed me; I think she had both of my hands in hers. I turned just a little to face her, and felt the first hideous shudder as we scraped onto the ground. The shudders and shivers turned to groans as metal twisted, and then there was nothing but impacting, and the hard jerks and thrusts and slamming as we hit ground going a couple hundred miles-per-hour.

I felt something snap inside me--felt several somethings inside me snap, and the pain that rushed through me blocked everything else out, for a time. I couldn't see anything, couldn't feel, couldn't hear, couldn't think. Everything around me went black and silent.

*****

I wasn't out for very long; just long enough to make everything blur a little in memory. I was still seat-belted into the seat--except it wasn't attached to the floor any longer. There wasn't anything resembling a floor beneath me, just torn, jagged metal, and concrete and grass below that. I could feel the blood dripping down my leg, and I didn't even want to guess at what was poking through my jeans. I could hear whimpering, and looked around, realizing that Patty wasn't near me. I couldn't see her, though I could hear her. I couldn't see *anyone*, though here and there I could hear a cough, or a ragged sigh. Not many sounds though; not enough to account for a whole plane full of people.

Patty, ohgod, baby, where are you? 

I couldn't move. My legs wouldn't work, and the first shift of movement made my vision go dark and wavy again, made me suck my breath in hard. 

There was something large and kind of squishy in front of me, in my way, and I pushed hard on it, trying to move it. I had to find Patty; *had* to… I couldn't see well; it was twilight kind of dark inside, and the air was thick with fumes and dust and who knows what else. I pushed again, and screamed when it shifted onto my broken leg, and I saw that it wasn't a bag, but the large man who'd been sitting a couple of rows behind us. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod…he… I shuddered and pushed him off of me again, not looking at his face. I couldn't. I didn't want to see in his eyes what I knew just by touching him. Ohmygod. PATTY WHERE ARE YOU?! 

I don't know if I screamed it, or just thought I did, or what, but I heard the whimper again, and made myself move, even though it hurt like a bitch. I tore a piece off my shirt and wadded it up in my mouth, biting down so I wouldn't scream again. I had to find her, had to get to her. 

"Patty! Where are you?" I called, over and over again, crawling slowly toward the whimpering I heard. I'm sure it was as far away as Dallas felt; it probably wasn't fifteen feet. But my leg was numb now, though all points inside me said it hurt, and my hands were scrapped raw, and my throat felt like I'd swallowed ground glass. I could feel something else inside me; it was like something had burst, or something like that. I don't know what it was; I just *hurt*. And I couldn't even think about what had been maybe 20 feet behind me--and what wasn't there any more. I couldn't let myself think about that yet. Maybe later. Maybe never. I didn't want to be here, I couldn't leave my baby sister here alone. I wanted to curl up and die, and just not have this be reality, but I couldn't do anything about it now. 

"randy…"

"Patty!" It was her voice; close, so close. I reached out, feeling around, dragging my leg, trying to get to her. She'd been thrown, her seatbelt coming undone. My fault? Did I not fasten it tight enough? Did it break? Why was she here, so far from where we'd been? "I'm coming, baby… I'm coming… SOMEBODY HELP!!"

She whimpered again, and I stretched out full, feeling her leg. It was slick, and sticky, and I didn't have to be told with what. I screamed again, begging, anyone please. I didn't know how long it'd been; if anyone knew we were there. I didn't know if anyone else on the plane was alive--and felt my skin crawl thinking Patty and I were alone. 

"randy…hurts…"

"I know, baby…" My voice was hoarse, ragged, my throat hurt. I hurt. Everywhere. I shifted, never letting go of her while I dragged myself closer, manuevering so I could sit, after a fashion, and pull her into my lap. I moved her carefully, though I didn't think it would matter, at this point. Her breathing was already ragged, fast, and her pulse beneath my fingers was dull and sluggish, very weak. Not my baby, too… please, god, not all of them…don't take them all. Don't leave me alone… please… 

I yelled some more, wanting someone--*anyone*, at that point--to answer me, just to let me know I wasn't here, alone, holding her, waiting for her to die. 

I didn't get any answer.

I didn't think that I would.

She shifted in my arms, and coughed once, turning toward me. "Mommy?"

"Mommy's not here right now, Patty. I have you, baby. I'll hold you. Just 'til Mommy can come hold you."

"don't…feel good, randy."

"I know, darlin'. I know you don't." My insides were screaming in agony; movement was not a good thing right now, but I couldn't not rock her. I'd rocked her every single day she'd been alive. I wouldn't not rock her now, when she needed me the most.

"where're we, randy?"

"We're on the airplane, Patty. It--went down." I choked over the words--how could I say "crashed"? She wouldn't understand. 

"am I sick now?"

"I--think so, Patty. I can't… see… dammit…" She was so cold in my arms now. I heard something, I thought, and shifted a little, yelling again. I had very little voice left, and screaming made my throat hurt worse, but god, someone had to come in here.. they couldn’t leave me alone, couldn't let her die like this! 

"am I going away? like Mrs. Marion did when she got sick?"

I didn't know what to say to her. I didn't understand dying, myself. I was thirteen, for God's sake. Death was something that happened to other people… to other families. Not mine… please, god, not mine… 

"I love you, Patty. I'm here, baby. You'll be okay… you have to be okay…"

"does it hurt to go 'way, randy? will I be alone?"

"No, darlin', you won't hurt, and you won't be alone. Never alone, Patty…because I'll never forget you. I'm right here with you." Please, please, whoever I hear, please hurry… don't let this happen… 

My eyes were hot, and I could feel the pounding behind them. This wasn't happening. Please, God, this wasn't happening.

"promise? promise you won't forget…that it won't hurt…? that I won't be alone?"

I'm pretty sure she was hurt inside, as well as outside. There wasn't enough blood on her to account for this shock she seemed to be sliding in, but I couldn't see… couldn't tell… "Never alone, Patty-baby…mommy and daddy are already there waiting for you. Jan's with them, Patty…you're not alone, baby. Do you see them? Can you see them, baby?"

"yes… I see…them…" Her hand tightened on mine for a minute, and she turned her face up to me. "come wi' me, Randy…please…"

Ohgod. I wished I could. Please, somebody… don't leave me here like this… 

"I'm here, Patty. And I'll… I'll go as far… with you…" I bit my lip again, holding her close. Her breathing was so shallow, her body was so cool. "Don't die, baby… don't leave me, Patty…"

I know she didn't hear me. I'm not sure when she stopped breathing, exactly. I heard her go… that last little whimper she made, and the way her body went all limp suddenly in my arms. I could hear them outside; I heard the sirens, the sounds of scuffling, of people trying to break through the rubble. I couldn't yell any more; my voice was gone, hoarse and ragged, from yelling for them and pleading with her… with anyone. I held her tighter to me, and let the pain take me… let it take me where it wanted. I didn't care any more… I couldn't. Mom and Dad were gone. My sisters were gone. I didn't care if the rescue workers got to me or not, now. I couldn't even process what I'd lost; I didn't know how to put it into measurable, bearable terms. I wanted to die, and someone had decided I should live.

I passed out when the first ray of light hit through, when the first rescue worker shouted, "I see someone!"

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Back ~~when dinosaurs roamed the earth~~ ~~in the dark ages~~ in mid-1998, and I started writing some original character stuff, for our own amusement. We named the characters Randy (Taylor) and Michael (Pierson), and at first it was just a lark, a way to have fun and explore things we weren't sure we could make work in our chosen fandom. 
> 
> But Randy and Michael took on lives of their own; became people in their own right. We developed histories for both of them, giving them friends, family, lovers. Michael was the heir-apparent to (and eventual head of) his family's international corporation, Pierson Pharmaceuticals. He hailed from England but when the guys' shared story begins had been in the States for some time, living in San Francisco and working out of that office as his headquarters. Randy -- short for Randall, his middle name -- was a bio-geneticist working in R&D at the HQ compound. Both characters had no small amount of tragedy and pain in their past (and really, to varying degrees, who doesn't?) and one of the things I loved the most about these guys was that no matter what life threw at them, they kept going. Both were - are - survivors. 
> 
> I knew, starting their story, that Randy was afraid to fly; that he'd suffered great personal tragedy fairly early in life, and what might've been a phobia quickly transformed into pure terror. What I wasn't completely sure of was what, or why, or how. So, when Pierson and I weren't actively writing the guys and their continuing shared adventures, I started to explore Randy's history. This piece was written years ago; before I ever even got on LJ. It's finished (as much as you can finish something as ambiguous as 'personal tragedy'), but I never did anything with it. It just sat there, taunting me. When I discovered the disk the other night with all the R/M files on it, I thought, "I want to share this." Randy is a part of _me_ , which I think is partly why he feels so real to me. My creation, no one else's. Not unlike being a parent. *wry smile*
> 
> So. For the six or so of you out there who might still be reading the Randy/Michael stories, here's Randy's earliest history, up to that life-changing event that shaped so much of his future. It's not an easy read, but I think it gives a lot of insight into who Randy is. **The story contains physical trauma and death** , so consider that before you read, if it's an issue. I would rate it vaguely PG-ish, I guess. I hope anyone who reads it...well, I won't say 'enjoy', but I hope you like it. 
> 
> **This actually happens long before any of the already-posted stories in the Randy and MIchael world. The post date is May 24, 2010, but the story was written probably 12 years before that.


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